With every swinging step of the horses taking them on, a new gladness blossomed in King’s heart.  For they were pushing ever further into the portion of the world which he knew best, loved best.  The present left him nothing to wish for; he had Gloria, and Gloria had elected to come with him.  Until high noon they would wind along, for the most part climbing pretty steadily with the old trail—­Indian trail, miners’ trail, trail which even to-day seems to lead from the first generation of the twentieth century straight back into the heart of 1850 and beyond.  Here men did not penetrate save at long intervals; here was true solitude.  And soon, when they should leave this trail to travel as straight a line as the broken country would allow toward Gus Ingle’s caves, they would enter a region given over entirely to the wild’s own bright-eyed, shy inhabitants.

There were red spots in Gloria’s cheeks when they started.  King sought to guess at what might be the emotions of a young girl going on with Gloria’s present emotional adventure—­vain task of a mere man seeking to fathom those troubled feminine depths!—­marking that she was a little nervous and distrait.

“I know the place Gus Ingle tried to describe,” he said, “as well as I know my old hat.  Or at least I’d have said so until he mentioned the third cave.  I’ve been there dozens of times, too, but I’ve got to see more than two caves there yet.”

Together they had read the crabbed lines in the Bible; they had been silent thereafter as to each came imagined pictures like ghosts from the past; ghosts of greed and envy and despair.  Now Gloria mused aloud: 

“I wonder—­do you suppose we’ll find it as he says?”

“At least we’ll see about it.  And whether there be heaps and piles of red, red gold, as the tale telleth, be sure our trip is going to be worth the two days’ ride.  I’ll show you such chasms and gorges and crags as you’ve never turned those two lovely eyes of yours upon, Mrs. Gloria King.” (He couldn’t abstain absolutely from all love-making.) “And a little grove of sequoias which belongs to me.  Or, at least, I believe I am the only man who knows where they are.  Friends of mine, those big fellows are, five old noble-souled monarchs.”

She looked interested and treated him to a fleeting smile, but asked curiously: 

“How can a man speak of a tree that way?  As though it were alive—­” She broke off, laughing, and amended:  “But they are alive, aren’t they?  I mean—­human.”

“Why, you poor little city-bred angel,” he cried heartily.  “You will answer your own question inside of two days.  No doubt I’m going to grow jealous of old Vulcan and Thor and Majesty.  Sure, I’ve named them,” he chuckled.  “And you’ll come with me into their dim cathedral to-morrow at dusk and listen with me to their old sermon.  A man ought to go to church to them at least once a year, to keep his soul cleaned out and growing properly.”